


Romance and Other Bug Reports

by Liara_90



Category: Mass Effect - All Media Types, Mass Effect Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Restaurant, Awkward Flirting, F/F, Geeky, Hospitals, Minor Injuries, Minor Violence, Rating May Change, Sexual Harassment
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-06
Updated: 2017-11-24
Packaged: 2018-12-12 00:13:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11725491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Liara_90/pseuds/Liara_90
Summary: Decorated war hero Jane Shepard (USMC) has been sent to the University of Vancouver for a crash course in international diplomacy before her next assignment. A faulty laptop brings her to the service desk of IT Specialist Samantha Traynor.And suddenly overloaded servers aren't the biggest problems in Sam's life.





	1. Bugs in the Dungeon

**Author's Note:**

> Currently a oneshot, though I have ideas I might build off of, if people seem to like the dynamic.

* * *

TICKET: #2915231185

RECEIVED: 6-MARCH-2012 13:01:22 (UTC-8:00)

SUBMITTED BY: jshepard (jshepard@uvan.edu)

PRIORITY: Medium

"So I was trying to do some totally-legitimate downloading in the library and when I was executing one of the files I got a message that reads 'I delete data like you on the way to real errors'. And now I keep getting some 'hard disk corruption' error whenever I try to change anything."

* * *

Ticket has been assigned to straynor by admin with the comment:

"Shepard's KIND OF a BIG DEAL so please don't fuck this up Sam. --Your Boss".

* * *

Like most university students in a hurry, Traynor's information-gathering processing was compressed to a quick query to Google and a click on the first result. Which, unsurprisingly, happened to be a Wikipedia article.

Specifically, at the United States Marine Corps snapshot that was serving as the article’s infobox photo. Jane Shepard (American Marine) looked... _intense_. That was really the only serviceable adjective. Decked out in her Dress Blues, Jane Shepard (American Marine) kept an aggressively neutral expression on her face, but piercing green eyes seemed to be doing their utmost to burn a hole in the camera. Between those eyes and the few strands of red hair uncovered by the cap Traynor couldn't help but wonder if Shepard hailed (ancestrally) from the Emerald Island. Before she could scroll down to the "Early life" section - her best hope for those juicy genealogical details - her head snapped upright at the sound of a door being swung open.

That was actually pretty unusual. Most of the staff who worked in the subterranean IT dungeon took the service elevator, because it was (a) more convenient and (b) you didn't have to deal with that door. A heavy metal thing that Traynor was reasonably sure had been designed to safeguard a bomb shelter under Eisenhower. That someone had (a) taken the stairwell instead of the elevator and (b) swung the door open without audibly grunting from exertion suggested that (a) that person was a visitor, not an IT goblin and (b) they were very, very strong.

So the visitor had Samantha Traynor's full attention when she crossed the threshold into the Monastery of the Eternal Debuggers (they'd had a _lot_ of time to come up with self-effacing nicknames). Traynor assessed her with typical efficiency. Sweat pants and a hoodie, bearing UVan iconography and lettering. About 5'9". Too old to be an undergrad. Too young to be a prof. Too casual to be a TA. Still has some life in her, so probably not a post-doc. _Grad student?_ (~60% confidence.) Freckled white skin. Fiery red hair. Emerald green eyes. _Wonder if she's Irish_....

Sam glanced back at the Wikipedia article, and a gear clicked in her mind.

“Can someone here help me with a tech problem I’m having?” Sam blinked. The faces matched, but the voice didn’t. Or rather, it didn’t match whatever voice a woman like Samantha Traynor assumed a woman like Jane Shepard sounded like. For starters, the voice was a lot more relaxed. Strong and confident, _yes_ , but definitely non-threatening. As something of an ASMR connoisseur, Traynor immediately approved.

"Hello, ma'am, I'm IT Specialist Samantha Traynor. What seems to be the problem?”

Now it was Shepard’s turn to blink. “You’re British?” _Obviously not the only one expecting a different voice._

It was a conversation Traynor was getting _very_ used to having. “Yes, ma’am. English, if we’re splitting hairs. London by way of Oxford. And _no_ , I haven’t watched _Downton Abbey_ or met the Queen.”

“Gotcha. Sorry, I was asking for directions upstairs, and the guy said to talk to the Indian woman. Dumb assumption on my part.”

“Yes, that would be Carl…” replied Sam, trying to keep her voice even as she suppressed a growl. He was one of those boorish American stereotypes who still struggled to accept that you didn’t need to be pasty-white to have an English accent. “Not quite the Indian IT worker you imaged, I’m afraid.”

_Well this is off to a great start. You’re left alone with a VIP for thirty seconds and you decided to bring up as many racial stereotypes as you possibly could._ Definitely _the sort of small talk that puts people to ease. And what did you even mean by_ ‘I’m afraid _’, Sam? You’re afraid that you’re not some stereotypically Hyderabadi in a call-centre hive?_

“Yeah, my bad. This might also be my bad, but I was hoping you could tell me.” Shepard dropped (that was really the only way to describe the motion, unfortunately) the laptop onto the counter before Sam. It was a rugged and almost comically-battered IBM ThinkPad, the webcam covered in masking tape, the screen’s frame held together by _duct_ tape. Judging by the way a few keys seemed stuck it had obviously been through _quite_ the tour of duty, and that was without even powering the damn thing on.

“What makes you think it was, ah, ‘ _your bad_ ’?” asked Traynor, as Shepard unslung her backpack and handed her a power cord. Sam unthinkingly licked her lip at the prospect of a challenge.

Shepard shrugged. “I break things for a living. Sometimes I take my work home with me.” She smiled slightly at that, but said smile faded quickly. “At least, I _used_ to break things for a living…”

“Are you here on the Alliance program?” Traynor wasn’t usually supposed to ask those kind of questions on-the-job (and it wasn’t like she was normally burning to ask them anyways), but there was something about Shepard that was really just… _inviting_?

“Guessed it in one,” Shepard said, nodding approvingly. The University of Vancouver had a longstanding agreement with the North Atlantic Treaty Organization (NATO if you were a Yank, Nato if you were a Brit, OTAN if you were French and actually felt like showing up), sending some of the best and brightest officers to the West Coast for a mid-career education. Most of the time the officers were career desk-jockeys taking a few months to pad their résumés, but every so often someone interesting came along. The scholarships were technically granted by Supreme Headquarters **Allied** Powers Europe, in Belgium, and through some memetic mutation everyone had begun referring to it as the Alliance program. “I’m supposed to learn stuff for… _international diplomacy_.”

The last words were muttered, barely above a whisper. Sam perked up at that. Shepard definitely didn’t look like the other diplomacy students. She looked like…an _Amazon_ was honestly the first word that came to Sam’s subconscious, but she settled on the marginally-less-inappropriate choice of _warrioress_. A soldier. A fighter.

“I’m sure you’ll excel at it,” Samantha (finally) replied. She finished the boot-up process, only to be confronted with a series of truly byzantine error messages and the kind of crash screen that caused her throat to tighten.

“What’s the prognosis, doc?” asked Shepard, having no problem reading the nervousness on Sam’s face. She leaned forward on the counter.

“Well… it’s still turning on… so that’s... _good_ …” Sam answered, in the gently-letting-you-down tone of voice that veterinarians employed around small children. Shepard leaned forward over the counter, letting out an audible wince as she took in the blue screen.

“It wasn’t doing that before,” Shepard supplied, almost sheepishly. “I also banged it on the doorframe on the way out the library, think that might have anything to do with it?”

_"Shepard's KIND OF a BIG DEAL so please don't fuck this up Sam. --Your Boss"._

“Mmmmmmm…” Sam kind of avoided answering the question entirely. “Could be any number of things. Things that are your fault. Things that aren’t your fault. We’ll probably never know for certain.” _Which is technically true, in a_ cogito ergo sum _sort of way._

“Right.” Shepard knew when she was being sugar-coated. “Sorry if it is me. I’ve never been the best when it comes to treating the hardware gently.” _Hardware_ probably being more guns and grenades than laptops and USB sticks, if Traynor had to take a guess. “Cozy little cave you guys have down here. Took me a while to find it.”

“Yes. Um. I apologize for my colleague’s choice of wall-hangings.” Namely numerous posters of largely-naked women from 70s and 80s B-movies. Her overwhelmingly-male coworkers seemed determine to affirm the worst geek stereotypes they could find. “We don’t normally get many outsiders down here.”

_‘Outsiders’, Sam? Really? You’ve been down here too long, this really_ is _your home._

“Why’s that?” asked Shepard, skipping entirely over Sam’s choice of nouns and internalized-yet-still-quite-visible self-annoyance.

“Oh… just… most people are content to submit a ticket and wait for a response.”

“How long’s that usually take?”

“Three or four days, on average. Varies with the urgency of the request, of course.” _Three or four days. As if you don’t know the average response time down to the minute. And how embarrassingly long it is._

“Mm. Well, there’s your answer. Sometimes doing things in-person is worth the time.”

“Sounds like an excellent motto for a soldier.”

“Soldier?”

Traynor swallowed, _loudly_ , belatedly realizing that she’d tipped her hand. A hand showing that she’d been halfway to cyber-stalking Jane Shepard before said Shepard had walked through the doors. At least Shepard’s expression suggested she was more amused than annoyed.

“Well… it’s not every day we get a war hero gracing our lowly cave.” _Not sure if self-effacing humor was the best route, Sam. Perhaps you should’ve just gone with a more classic apology_.

“That’s… not the word I would have gone with,” replied Jane, several seconds later. Her voice dropped a little at that, emerald green eyes seeming to dull in the light. _Definitely should have just apologized_.

“I’ll… get started on this laptop right away, ma’am,” said Traynor, trying to reinstate some semblance of normalcy into their conversation. “If I can’t get it up and running again, I’ll extract the hard drive and make a copy of the data for you. With your permission, of course.”

Shepard didn’t exactly _perk up_ , but her posture did seem to straighten. “Thanks, Miss Traynor.” There was something ever-so-slightly mischievous in Shepard’s eyes as she spoke. _Playful_ , even. “Maybe I’ll come by tomorrow around five to pick it up.”

Sam’s heart skipped a beat. _Like just about everyone else here, I get off at five. That’s an odd time for classes to be ending, so Shepard’s either picking a number out of the air (which is decidedly a non-zero possibility) or is hinting that maybe she’d like to swing by right around the time your shift is ending._

_Okay, okay…._ think _Sam. There’s a very real chance that a woman who checks all of your boxes just walked through the door and started flirting with you. Maybe. Don’t blow it. But don’t sound cold. Oh, and don’t sound desperate. This is just going to be a mirage in the desert of your sex life if you sound desperate. You need a reply that’s quick, witty, and flirtatious. But not overly so, since (a) you could still be entirely misreading the situation and (b) you don’t want to scare her off. So something with the kind of mystique a_ femme fatale _from those trashy American paperbacks would say._

“....and maybe I’ll be here.”

Sam glanced up, brushing a few wayward hairs out of her eyes as she did. Only to see that Jane Shepard was... 

… _gone_.

Sam blinked. Then she glanced down, and realized that a firmware diagnostic from Shepard’s laptop was playing across its screen. Which she had been staring into for however long it had taken her to come up with that witty retort.

“Nailed it, Sam,” Traynor said aloud, speaking to no one at all.

And yet, in the doldrums of her despair, Sam couldn’t help but notice the small business card resting atop her counter. It was a UVan business card, the kind that any student or staff could get fifty of for free if they could navigate the labyrinth of the university website. JANE SHEPARD, followed by a phone number, a .edu email address, and the university coat of arms.

She flipped it over. The reverse was blank, apart from from a short message written in cheap blue pen and surprisingly neat handwriting:

_I’ll swing by tomorrow. Thanks for looking into this. I’d say goodbye but you seem engrossed. I should go._

Sam collapsed in her swivel-chair, staring at the lines of diagnostics scrolling across Shepard’s monitor. It certainly wasn’t the first time Sam’s internal monologue had derailed her flesh-and-blood socialization... 

... _but she_ did _say she was coming back._

And that was definitely not nothing... 


	2. System Crash

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, I might as well fess up that this is basically an AU of _[QGA](https://archiveofourown.org/works/821407)_ at this point. (With apologies to Ren).
> 
> And special thanks to [fishbone76](https://fishbone76.deviantart.com/) for giving me the inspiration (and permission to borrow) the [Fishbone Pub](https://fishbone76.deviantart.com/art/Fishbone-Pub-664586586).

* * *

There were three sounds from that night that Samantha Traynor would never forget. All of which occurred within the span of about five seconds at 8:39 PM.

  1. The the sound of a tray of drinks being dropped, and the corresponding shattering of glass against floor.

  2. The sickening _crack_ of a nose being broken.

  3. The surprised exclamation of “ _Traynor?_ ” from the lips of Jane Shepard.




* * *

_4:39 PM (four hours prior)_

Samantha Traynor alt-tabbed away from the _umpteenth_ article containing the phrase “Jane Shepard” that Google News had served up to her, pulling up a window showing the lethargic transfer of data from one harddrive to another. The co-worker who’d just walked up behind her glanced over her shoulder, saw nothing worthy of his interest or teasing, and proceeded to carry on his way to the fridge.

Sam alt-tabbed back to the article. Suffice it to say, there had been a _lot_ of ink spilled over the woman who’d just walked through her doors.

The basic outline of Shepard’s life seemed sufficiently uncontroversial. That was, until you clicked on the “Talk” page of the “Jane Shepard” article on Wikipedia, and realized that Miss Shepard seemed to be only marginally less contentious than _Roe v. Wade_. Half the Internet seemed to think that she was the savior of civilization, while the other half was entirely convinced that she was delusional at best and a war criminal at worst.

Sam cracked something in her neck and dove in.

Jane Shepard came from your usual North American blend of Scottish-Irish-Anglo-Germanic-Scandinavian heritage (Shepard had an ancestral village in Co. Leitrim, so Sam chalked her initial suspicion up as _correct_ , as fractional as it was). She came from a proud naval tradition - her family seemed to have fought in every war since American Independence - though she’d actually been born in Canada, where her parents had been working at the time. The next eighteen years involved hop-scotching around the world, before Shepard joined the Marines and things got a lot… _fuzzier_.

Depending on which blogger you read (and Sam read all of them, because she was like that), Shepard was either Wonder Woman incarnate or a radical feminist who’d shouted her way into a Service she didn’t belong to. _More hop-scotching_. Court-martialed for assaulting an officer, acquitted when evidence that he’d sexually harassed appeared on the front-page of _Der Spiegel_ and in prime time on CNN. _More shuffling_. Wounded in a shoot-out with Taliban insurgents near Kandahar. Purple Heart, Bronze Star, but also a lot of snide questions about whether she should have been there in the first place. Star witness in a Congressional hearing about the role of women in the Armed Forces. Possible transferred to a Special Forces unit, but there were way too many [_[citation needed]_](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wikipedia:Citation_needed) tags for Traynor to trust anything. More congressional testimony, about LGBT servicemen. Transferred to Iraq.

Sam came across a _Vanity Fair_ article with an intimidating title, opening it in a new tab:

“The Sole Survivor”

Before she could click over to it, though, she had to tab away again, heavy footsteps approaching her from behind. Sam's ears perked up at the sounds of conversation, the idle chatter of her coworkers discussing which realm of Azeroth they planned to pillage that night. That caused her eyes to dart to the bottom-right corner of the screen, which informed her that it was...

 _17:11_ bloody _hell!_

Sam slammed down the lid of her laptop, racing through her end-of-day rituals with twice her usual ( _and_ _already quite commendable_ ) efficiency. Electronics locked in secure filing cabinets. PC powered off. Coat. Hat. Backpack. Shouted farewells to whoever else happened to be in the building.

 _5:14 PM_. Not great. Her shifted started at half-past on the dot, and she liked to/was _expected_ to arrive ten minutes beforehand. Fat chance of that happening now. Sam half-sprinted out of the building, wincing slightly at the unfamiliar rays of sunlight forcibly constricted her pupils. The Fishbone Pub was halfway across campus, and while the extensive green spaces and _breathtaking_ views of the North Shore Mountains were undeniably appreciated, they also made getting from Point A to Point B something of a _royal pain in the arse_.

Sam set off on a jog. There was a campus shuttle bus that _would_ have taken her pretty much to the front door, and it was _supposed_ to be stopping _here_ right about _now._ It wasn't ( _of course_ ), though that was hardly surprising to Sam, who had long-ago calculated an average delay of seven-and-a-half minutes compared to the shuttle's posted schedule. With less than a 15% chance that the shuttle would actually arrive early enough to ferry her to her destination on-time, the math dictated that Samantha Traynor would be jogging.

Sam hated jogging.

She ignored the sideways glances as she cut her way across campus, the vaguely-derisive expressions chiding her for her lack of forethought. Or maybe she was projecting. She did that a lot.

The route she took wasn't exactly the one from the Guided Tour for Prospective Students, but it _was_ about as damn close to the 'straight line' that Euclidean geometry dictated would be 'the shortest distance between two points'. Through the service alley behind the library. Straight through the civil engineering building. Across the parking lot of the Huerta Memorial University Hospital. Sam's hands clutched the straps of her backpack for support, an acute pain stabbing her in the side with every step.

 _There it was!_ The welcoming façade of the Fishbone Pub entered her view as she rounded a corner, but a few short strides away. Her marathon almost complete, Sam forced herself across the remaining distance, breaths coming in heavy as she made her way to the rear entrance. Too tired to even notice the usual foul stench wafting out of the dumpsters, Sam slipped into the restaurant/pub/place of employment.

 _17:31_. Sam winced a little as she read the display, the digits blinking before her eyes. She fumbled around in her wallet for a cheap plastic card, which she slid through a reader on the side. The machine _beeped_ affirmatively as it read the data embedded on the card's magnetic strip, formally logging Sam in for her shift.

" _You're late._ "

Sam swallowed. She'd _really_ been hoping to avoid this particular run-in with her manager. The same way that, as a child, she'd hoped to fly to the Moon for her birthday. So she spun around, coming face-to-face with Vanessa Ventura in the flesh, flashing her most charming smile.

"A waitress is never late," Sam explained, even as she hurriedly made her way to the small change room adjacent to the exit. "Nor is she early. She arrives _precisely_ when she means to."

"You _meant_ to be late?" Ventura asked, derisively, the ( _rather witty_ ) Tolkien references sailing clean over her head.

"Problems at the lab," Sam explained, lying only by omission of the fact that that _'problem'_ was wholly self-inflicted. She set her backpack down on a wooden bench and hurriedly pulled several crumpled garments out of it, before proceeding to toss the bag into a small locker.

"I'm not paying you to work another job," Ventura replied, turning her back to offer Samantha some illusion of privacy as the younger woman began changing.

"I _know_ , and I really am sorry," Sam replied, pouring in more contrition than she felt a few minute's delay truly warranted. _Running shoes unlaced, jeans wiggled out of, shirt yanked artlessly overhead._

"And I'm not paying for your first half-hour at _this_ job," Ventura stated. "That clear, Traynor?"

Ventura glanced over her shoulder at Sam, who was presently clad only in her unmentionables, her face reddening in a mix of embarrassment at her state of undress and anger at the forfeited wages.

"Crystal, ma'am," Sam answered, reverting to reflexive formality, her voice steely even as Ventura gave her a one-over with her eyes.

" _Good_ ," declared the manager. "Get out in two minutes or the whole hour's unpaid."

With that she left, leaving Sam to her costume change.

" _Bloody tosser_ ," Sam muttered under her breath, once she was sure the door was closed. She had little doubt that the Fishbone Pub in general - and Ventura in particular - violated any number of labor laws on a daily basis, but quite frankly Sam needed the money. Her scholarship covered the absolute bare minimum, and college credits weren't exactly _cheap_. Her work in the IT lab was woefully underpaid, a clause in her scholarship demanding she put her computer science skills to the university's use. And the terms of her visa prohibited her from getting a paying job off-campus. Which, after many weeks of searching, left her with exactly _one_ proper source of revenue.

_Knee-high socks. A pleated skirt with a tartan pattern. A low-cut top that clung tight to her torso. Black flats with padded inserts by the heels. A ~~flirty~~ welcoming smile._

As woefully naive as it sounded in retrospect, Sam had actually been looking forward to her first shift at the Fishbone Pub.

" _It's really just a messy optimization problem_ ," Sam had explained, speaking to the Mrs. Priya Suresh-Traynor, who was sitting too close to a webcam that was too far away. " _Plus_ it'll be a great chance to actually get to meet people. Pay's not too shabby, either, not with tipping."

Her mum had done that little shake of her head that Sam had long since identified as the ' _I disagree with your reasoning but don't want an argument about it_ ' maternal gesture. Her father had given her the obligatory warnings, allusions to anecdotes from when _he_ frequented those kind of places. Sam could spot mum shaking her head in the background, at how his celebrated ' _war stories_ ' had turned into cautionary fables now that his alpha sprog was all grown up.

In her head, the problems of being a waitress were a lot easier to solve. In her mind it was a game, and Sam loved game theory almost as much as she loved esoteric communications protocols. So this was the game she'd imagined:

The average section of the pub had twelve tables, seating anywhere between one and seventy-two patrons on any given night (and sometimes even more). There were a total of sixty-one items on the menu (not counting beverages), which took anywhere from one minute to twenty-two to prepare. There were four different chefs each of whom Sam had given different efficiency ratings, for different dishes.

Now suppose two parties came in and ordered a total of eight main courses between them. Sure you _could_ just give the cooks the orders as they came in (FIFO, aka ' _first in, first out_ ' in queuing theory), but that was _such_ an amateurish way of doing things. _Surely_ there was a better way to make sure the meals were made in the optimal amount of time for everyone involved. Sam had had no doubt that she'd be able to apply her mathematical genius at hew new gig, positively _blowing away_ her fellow waitresses by flaunting her ability to process, organize and communicate information in the most _breathtakingly_ efficient manner possible. Because _that_ was the real challenge of being a waitress.

_Right?_

* * *

_5:51 PM_

"Hey, Sam, I need you to cover 14 and 16 for a few minutes," said one of Sam's co-waitresses, who was making her way out the back door, cell phone in hand.

"Sure thing," Sam said, with a smile that was barely forced.

* * *

_6:33 PM_

Sam walked over to the table, where a man she vaguely recognized had just finished a dinner alone, paying with cash before walking out without a word. Sam scowled at the rather poor etiquette, tallying up the coins and bills he'd dumped hap-hazardously next to the receipt. His bill came to $21.60, after tax. He'd left exactly $21.50 on the table.

" _Arsehole_ ," Sam muttered, a little too loudly. The discrepancy would no doubt be taken out of her payout by _accountant extraordinaire_ Ventura.

The lack of a tip was rubbing salt in the wound. As a proper Englishwoman she'd once looked on the practice as a quaint custom of the Yanks, albeit one selectively spreading across the sea. _Now_ , she saw it as a matter of life and death.

She flipped over the receipt, glancing at the handwritten note scrawled in angry red pen. _YOU DIDN'T CALL WHAT KIND OF SERVICE IS THAT???_

She remembered why she'd recognized him, he'd left his business card on the table more than a few times, the phone number underlined with a smiley face next to it.

" _Arsehole_ ," Sam repeated.

* * *

_7:21 PM_

Sam sat in the change room, fiddling with her phone and massaging her foot. The scab on the back of her heel had been rubbed raw again, and her feet were protesting something _awful_ after hours scurrying on the floor.

"I need you back out there, Traynor," Ventura said, poking her head into the _sanctum sanctorum_ of the break room. "Just got a bunch of kids from the frat house."

"I'm on my break," Sam half-stated, half-pleaded. "Nine more minutes?"

"You can have it later, Sam," Ventura declared. "Get back on the floor."

Sam winced as she slipped back into her no-slip flats. "What's another hour or two, right, Sam?"

* * *

_8:36 PM_

"Excuse me, sir, excuse me.... _excuse me_ -"

Sam tried to make her way between the tables. Two parties ( _or maybe one_ large _party?_ ) were shouting at each other, pretty playfully, she was (pretty) sure. But they were jostling and roughhousing, and turning her narrow pathway into a swamp of sweaty bodies.

Someone bedecked in the letters of the Greek alphabet stumbled into her, catching his balance on her shoulder. Sam - her good hand delicately keeping a tray of pint glasses aloft - could barely steady herself, let alone push him off when his hand began lingering for _far_ too long.

"Excuse me, can I get through..." Sam tried to slip past him, but was blocked, bodily. A few droplets of beer spilled over the lips of the glasses she was carrying. Sam moved to side-step the frat boy, but he half-stumbled into her again, one hand sliding sloppily from her collarbone to her midriff. " _Hey_!"

"Sorry!" called out another man, wearing a varsity jacket that had probably been trendy when _Grease_ was first released. "C'mon, Adam, let's get you back to the table." The newcomer smiled at Sam. "Sorry, babe, he's kind of a grabby drunk."

Sam exhaled, forcing herself to be steady. "Just... please get him out of the way," she pleaded, gesturing with her eyes to the space between tables both men were blocking. She felt her arm starting to wobble, the weight of six liters of liquor beginning to exhaust her. " _Please_."

"C'mon... just your numbers..." the man named ' _Adam_ ' said with a slurred tongue.

"I'm sorry, sir, I have a boyfriend," Sam answered.

It was a horrible lie, one she felt a little guilty about every time she told it, but she'd seen that it was (usually) the best way to shut such men down. Tell them you weren't interested in _them specifically_ and they took it as either a challenge or a threat. Tell them you weren't interested in the Y-chromosome _in general_ and they'd latch on like bloody leeches, debauched Sapphic fantasies racing through their minds...

" _Please_..." Adam continued, looking increasingly like he was having trouble standing up.

Adam's friend turned to her. "Just give him a number," he said softly. Instead of the ( _much more reasonable_ ) course of action of manhandling his fellow fraternal away. "Make something up."

"I'm not giving out _any_ number," Sam declared, exasperation blurring into anger. She'd been working too hectic a night for too long without a break, sore and exhausted, pissed at her boss and a fair cross-section of the diners. She simply didn't have the energy to pretend otherwise. " _No_ numbers, real or-"

"-fffffffucking _bitch_ ," Adam yelled, making himself heard over the revelry of the pub. And before Sam could blink he was _pushing_ her.

It was over the course of those next few seconds, those moments of extreme surprise and disorientation, that those three sounds etched themselves into Sam's memory:

1\. _The the sound of a tray of drinks being dropped, and the corresponding shattering of glass against floor._

Sam stumbled backwards, her free hand shooting out in an evolutionarily-ingrained attempt to catch something. _Anything_. (Nothing.) She tripped over a stool leg, her foot staying in place while her torso kept moving, the damnable laws of gravity demanding she pay a price for the discrepancy. She hit the beer-stained floor a fraction of a second before the drinks did, squeezing her eyes shut as a pint _shattered_ into shards a few inches from her face.

2\. _The sickening_ crack _of a nose being broken._

Sam didn't know a lot about fighting. She didn't pretend to. She felt confident in saying that she was in the bottom 10th percentile for 'overall knowledge about fighting', and that was probably being generous, lumping in small children and amnesiacs. She regularly got squeamish watching PG-rated action movies. But she knew what sounds humans were supposed to make, and that _crack_ was not one of them.

Her eyelids drifted open, and between the stools and the tables and the jeans she could make out a man hunched over, cradling his face, crimson droplets of blood slipping through his fingers to the floor.

3\. _The surprised exclamation of “_ Traynor _?” from the lips of Jane Shepard._

That almost made the whole bloody thing worth it.

" _Traynor_?" It was the same voice from before, from the basement, but it sounded so completely different. Gone was the easy camaraderie, the glimmer of self-effacing humor. There was _concern_ in that voice, real and raw, but also so much strength.

"Shepard?" Sam blinked, rolling over slightly so as to rest fully on her back. " _Ow._ "

"Don't move," Shepard ordered, an iron in her voice that Sam wouldn't dare disobey. "It looks like you hit your head."

" _Feels like it_ , too," Sam confirmed. Shepard dropped to one knee beside her, completely disregarding the crystals of broken beer glasses beside her. " _Ahhhh_. Where did you _come_ from?"

"Edmonton," answered Shepard, with a small snort at her own joke. "Are you having any trouble seeing? Any blurriness or double-vision?"

Sam blinked a bit more. "I don't _think_ so," she replied. Jane Shepard was kneeling directly atop her, back lit by the bar lights above. Bright lights and shadowed features filled Sam's vision. "Everything looks beautiful from here."

Now it was Shepard's turn to blink. Sam found the batting of those lashes to be cute beyond belief. "Okay. Try sitting up,” Shepard instructed.

Sam nodded a little in compliance, leaning forward.

And then she did something exceptional stupid.

She stuck her hand out.

A large shard of glass, slick with beer, slid directly into the muscle of her palm, Sam having foolishly set her hand down on the floor in an attempt to steady herself. She shouted out - more in surprise than pain - her head suddenly swimming as blood seeped from her hand in riverine patterns.

"Oh, shit," murmured Shepard. " _C'mon_."

With an ease that betrayed her experience, Jane slid an arm under Sam's, lifting the IT specialist-slash-waitress to her feet. "We're getting you to the clinic. Can you walk?"

"I think so," Sam said, even as her eyes remained squinted in pain. "Shall we test that hypothesis with an experimental-" She let her weight fall on her foot, and immediately let out a yelp of pain. " _Ow_. Oh, no, that definitely hurts. Ow."

 _'You've totally ruined your uniform'_ , some part of Sam's subconscious somehow found fit to point out to her. ' _Blood on_ everything'.

"How bad?" asked Shepard, even as she guided Sam onto a stool.

"Five or a six on the Wong-Baker pain scale, I'd wager?" Sam self-assessed, exhaling in relief.

"That's good," Shepard replied, to Sam's vague surprise. "Stay lucid for me, Samantha."

" _Anything_ for you," Sam confirmed.

 _And_ exactly _how hard did you hit your head there, Traynor? Hard enough to wake Stupid Sam from her slumber?_

Thankfully, Sam's awkward choice of phrasing was quickly followed-up by another voice, one that snapped her from her concussion-induced daze. 

"Should we call an ambulance, Shepard?"

The voice was young and feminine, American-accented like Shepard's but with a bit more attitude behind it. For the first time in a long minute Sam's eyes swiveled away from Shepard, glancing over her shoulder to spot the speaker. A woman in a dark blue jacket with long, brown hair, the scraped skin around her knuckles suggesting Shepard hadn't been the only bruiser brawling.

Sam swallowed. She hadn't realized it while she was flat on her back and bleeding from her head, but Shepard's flying punch had sent the pub halfway to a fracas, the bloodied Adam's _'brothers'_ suddenly looking to get a piece of the action. While Shepard had been attending to Sam, two other patrons had formed a weak perimeter around them, keeping the would-be brawlers at bay with clenched fists and angry glares.

"I'd rather not stick around, Ash," Shepard called out, her eyes performing a similar sweep of the room. "We're five minutes from Huerta on foot."

Sam tried edging off the bar stool, setting her foot down on the floor. She was wincing even before any real weight was on it. _Nope. Definitely did something horrible to it._ Her expression was downright apologetic, as if she was somehow _guilty_ of being injured.

"She can't walk," pointed out the other protector, a broad-shouldered man with a five o'clock shadow.

"She doesn't have to," Shepard replied, definitively.

And before Sam could so much as open her mouth, Shepard was scooping her up in her arms, Sam's eight-and-a-half stone of weight apparently nothing to the woman.

"Settle my tab, would you, Kaidan?" Shepard's voice was clearly an order. And clearly meant more than the paying of a bill.

"As you command, O Fearless Leader," Kaidan replied, with a wry grin.

" _Traynor_." That name again, from those lips. “I’m getting you out of here.”

 _Definitely_ (almost) worth it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, Chapter 2 of this [not dead yet](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dGFXGwHsD_A) fic. I'd hoped to upload it with Chapter 3, but editing that could take a few more days, and staggering chapters is supposed to what Real AuthorsTM do, right?
> 
> Hopefully y'all enjoyed it. _Mass Effect_ is still a somewhat unfamiliar fandom for me, so please let me know if it felt, um _right_. This chapter and the next are doing a bit of stage-setting for future adventures. If there's anything you liked, anything you thought could be better, any ideas for the story, or just anything that caught your eye, please feel free to leave me a comment. I can also be reached on [Tumblr](http://www.pvoberstein.tumblr.com/) or [reddit](https://www.reddit.com/user/pvoberstein/), if you are so inclined. I love feedback!
> 
> A quick question on world-building: this is a _very_ Modern AU, meaning so far it's been set on Earth as we know it, sans aliens. I've plans to introduce more of the human cast of _Mass Effect_ in AU-appropriate roles, but am not yet sure if I should ' _humanize_ ' alien NPCs like Tali and Garrus. Thoughts? _Yea or nay_?


	3. Defrag

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shepard helps Sam to the Huerta Memorial University Hospital

  
"Not to say that I don't like this..." Sam began, her body bouncing slightly as Shepard half-jogged down the university's streets...

.... _Being practically bridal-carried by the bastard love child of an Amazonian warrior and an avenging angel? If all it took to get here was mild brain damage you'd have banged your head a lot earlier, Sam._

"...Sorry?" Shepard apologized, a little uncertainly. She was managing a quick pace despite the burden of Sam's weight in her arms, ignoring the wayward glances of undergrads and post-docs.

Sam shook her head, realizing she'd trailed off. "I feel a little ridiculous. And I'm getting blood all over your jumper."

Shepard snorted. "That's why it's black, Traynor. Hides the stains better."

"Oh?" Sam perked up a little at that, even as her foot continued to throb mercilessly. "You're saying I shouldn't shine a UV torch on your outfit, ma'am?"

From her perch in Shepard's arms, Sam watched as her rescuer raised a bemused eyebrow. And then Sam was blushing furiously at the way her words could have been interpreted.

_You know, for someone who studies and designs communications systems you are bloody_ awful _at actually using the ones you have._

"Probably not," Shepard agreed, sparing Sam from the worst of her embarrassment. "There's more blood than just yours on it."

That sentence made Sam feel a little uneasy. Her eyes darted to the dark fabric without conscious thought, but if there were other bloodstains they were hidden _exceptionally_ well.

_Could have been metaphorical, Sam. She’s a Marine, remember? Just an interesting way of saying that she's okay with blood._

Better than _Sam_ was, that was certain. Sam would have thought that being raised by medical professionals would have made her a little less squeamish about bodily fluids, but she still got dizzy looking at her own paper cuts.

The rest of their short trip was made in silence, as Shepard jogged up the footpath leading to the entrance of Huerta Memorial. The University of Vancouver had a well-endowed med school and a Level I trauma center, which Sam had (up until that night) never had any use for. She'd actually only ever been in the hospital twice before, and on both occasions it was just to pick up medication for her allergies and asthma.

The waiting room was as quiet as one would expect on a Tuesday night, a few people nursing cuts needing stitches, but nothing obviously traumatic. Sam had caught a glimpse of herself in the sliding doors as they'd entered, however, and almost passed out then and there.

"Head wounds bleed like a motherfucker," Shepard explained, apparently sensing Sam's apprehension as the Marine carried her through corridors lit by neon bulbs. "It's not as bad as it looks."

"Oh. Well, that's a relief," Sam replied, a little meekly. _Because if mum saw me right now she'd probably be apoplectic_.

Shepard set Sam down with surprising gentleness. Before Sam could say so much as ' _thank you'_ , though, the woman was off, speaking in the crisp jargon of an EMT to a receptionist. The woman at the desk nodded and picked up a handset - a Cisco 7900-series, comms geek Sam couldn't help but note - Shepard bearing on the poor thing until the call was completed.

"Five minutes," Shepard promised, making her way back to Sam.

The patient nodded. "Thanks. You didn't have to do this."

Shepard looked mildly puzzled at Sam's words. "Don't mention it," she replied, easily, slinking into the seat beside her.

"....and while I most decidedly enjoyed listening to that prick get his nose bashed in," Sam began, "you didn't have to. We deal with odd jobs like him in all the time at the Pub. Calling the police might have been safer."

Shepard raised that same amused eyebrow. Sam noted for the first time that there was something _off_ about it - a small scar that neatly bisected the brow. An old injury, no doubt, but from where Sam hadn't a clue.

" _Maybe_ ," Shepard agreed, sounding mostly like she wanted to avoid aggravating someone with a head injury. "...But like you said. It was _satisfying_."

Sam smiled at Shepard's honesty. "You enjoy the occasional tussle, don't you? Seems rather _uncouth_ for such a distinguished officer." There was a teasing lilt to her voice, playful despite the gash in her scalp.

"I never claimed to be a paragon of virtue," Shepard answered, not quite matching Sam's smile. “I’ve been told I can be a bit of a... _renegade_ , I guess is the word.”

They sat in silence for a few more minutes, Sam left alone with her thoughts and the taste of iron in her mouth. A mercifully short time later, the receptionist shouted out a room for Sam to make her way to.

The two women got to their feet as one.

"You okay?" Shepard asked, as Sam eased some weight onto her foot.

"In no small part thanks to your _dashing_ heroics." The waitress and the warrior stood awkwardly for a few seconds.

"Um..." Sam's voice almost died in her throat. "I know I've probably imposed enough on your time as it is, but would you mind... if you wouldn't mind _terribly_ , I mean... maybe helping me in the room."

"Need a hand?" Shepard asked, already sliding a shoulder beneath Sam, helping her limp her way to the clinic. That there were a dozen wheelchairs waiting around for exactly this purpose went unnoticed by either woman.

Shepard escorted Sam to the room. ' _Room_ ' should probably have been put in air-quotes, however, seeing as it was really more of a hospital bed partitioned by a thin curtain. Sam hopped up onto the bed, feeling the faux leather beneath her.

"Ms. Shepard, I'm sorry, I'm acting-"

"Want me to stay?" Jane asked.

Sam blushed. "You could probably tell the nurse what happened better than I can."

Shepard smiled. It was a small smile, barely more than a flashed grin, but it was honest and warm, and Sam felt something tighten in her chest at the look. "It's okay," Shepard said. And then she took Sam's hand in her own, squeezing it firmly. "You're not the first friend I've taken to a hospital."

That was a sentence that simply _begged_ for a follow-up, but before Sam could ask it the curtain was thrown open, a tall and austere woman making her entrance.

"Good evening, Miss Traynor, my name is Doctor Karin Chakwas," she declared, eyes barely drifting up from her clipboard. "Some work days are worse than others, aren't they?"

"Yes, ma'am," Sam answered, perking up slightly at the presence of a fellow English ex-pat.

"Hey, you got a real doc and not an overworked nursing student," Shepard said, a little teasingly. "What's the occasion?"

"I spend my time in the clinic when I can," Chakwas answered, somewhat indifferently. "And you're... _next of kin_?" she asked, understandably skeptical.

"Jane Shepard, ma'am," Shepard said, a tad formally. "And I'm... a _witness_."

"She can stay," Sam blurted out, a little too quickly. "If that's alright, I mean."

_Wow, Traynor, way to take advantage of (a) your own injury and (b) Shepard's willingness to provide support. Nothing says '_ girlfriend material _' like emotional exploitation, does it?_

"I see." Chakwas made a small _tick_ on her clipboard, ignorant to Sam's inner monologue. "I take it campus police have been informed?"

"My friends at the bar are taking care of that," Shepard answered. "Maybe we can get the bleeding stemmed, first, ma'am?"

The doctor looked slightly amused at Shepard's instructions, but was soon treating Sam with unimpeachable expertise.

To her own surprise, Sam almost dozed off. The last dregs of adrenaline were flushing from her system, leaving her flush with exhaustion, and the painkiller pressed into her palm was working _wonders_. Chakwas set to work treating Sam's head, hand and foot injuries in an easily unhurried manner, all while Shepard provided a blow-by-blow account of just how each injury had been obtained. (Sam wished Shepard had skipped over the part where she'd impaled herself on a pint, admittedly.)

On final diagnosis the injuries were, as Shepard had suggested, pretty superficial. None of her cuts required stitches, and her foot would be treated with ice and bed rest. There were no signs that Sam had actually concussed herself - _bollocks, there goes_ that _excuse for your behavior_ \- though they penciled in a follow-up appointment out of an abundance of caution.

Chakwas excused herself some minutes later, gesturing for Sam to stay put while she handled a bit of bureaucracy. Sam let out an oddly-contented sigh and stared down at her newly-bandaged hand, the thick medical wrap rendering it mostly useless.

"How you feeling?" Shepard asked, seated in a low chair opposite Sam. She was hunched forward - _horrible posture_ \- her gaze seeming to rest on Sam's shoes.

"Fine. _Better than fine_ , honestly," Sam answered. "A bit chilly, but that's it." Some ventilation fan was blowing cold air into the clinic, sending goosebumps up her forearms.

And before the complaint had left Sam's lips, Shepard was stripping out of her hoodie. Sam's breath caught in her throat as she took in what the tank top exposed - powerful biceps and impossibly-defined abdominals, along with a dozen white lines where cuts had healed into scars.

" _Here_." Shepard proffered the heavy hoodie, balled up messily in her hands, the sleeves hanging down like noodles. "You should probably change out of that top, too."

In another context Sam might have interpreted that as flirtatious innuendo, but at the moment she knew _exactly_ what Shepard meant. She'd been using the bottom half of her shirt to wrap her hand on their way to the clinic, the ultra-thin cotton irreparably stained crimson. And after the night's rambunctiousness, she wouldn't mind wearing something that didn't invite ogling by design.

" _Avert your eyes_ ," Sam instructed, grabbing the sweater from Shepard's outstretched arms.

Shepard raised an eyebrow but dutifully complied, standing up from her seat and turning to face the wall, hands clasped behind her back. Sam blushed a little and hurried to escape her top - a maneuver made just a little awkward by the way her hand was bandaged. She let the top drop to the floor without thinking - the sound of falling fabric eliciting a head-tilt from Shepard - before sliding into the surprising-snug hoodie.

Sam was about to open her mouth when something caught her eye. When her _own face_ caught her eye, actually. _Shepard is looking right into a mirror_ -

- _her eyes are closed, Sam._

Traynor cleared her throat. "You can, um, turn around," Sam said, the sentence sounding oddly like she was playing a game with a small child. Shepard took the prompt, her arms falling back to rest loosely at her sides. "You didn't peak, did you?"

She'd meant for that to sound teasing, maybe even a little flirty, but her subconscious wouldn't let her pull it off.

Shepard smiled, that small, strange, understanding smile of hers. "There was a mirror..." she began, speaking softly "...but _no_ I didn't peak."

"Promise?"

_Memories of drunken cat-calls. Frat boys flipping up her skirt. A stranger copping a feel somewhere crowded. People yelling at her for not taking their number. A sloshed buffoon planting a hand on her chest._

Shepard's face hardened. Not at Sam - even someone as socially inept as her could tell that - but at some distant enemy, some injustice to be righted. "I give you my word of honor, Traynor. You can take it or leave it."

" _Take it_ ," Sam blurted out _. Another excellent choice of words by Samantha Traynor..._ "I mean... I trust you. I'm sorry I suggested otherwise."

Shepard shook her head, red hairs swaying across her eyes. "Don't be. I understand."

Sam smiled without thinking. "Thank you."

They sat in silence for several seconds.

"Paperwork's taking a while..." Shepard grumbled, around the point where Sam was preparing to blurt out a _non sequitur_ to break the quiet. "Maybe I should check on the good doctor..."

"I'm sure she's just busy," Sam interrupted, once again too quickly. Her face reddened for the thousandth time that day, as Shepard sunk back into her seat.

_Tick...tock...tick...tock...._

"So...." Sam finally said, the sound of her own voice surprising her. "Why don't you tell me about the Alliance program you're in?"

Shepard glanced a little skeptically at Traynor, but she recognized an icebreaker when one was being hurdled in her direction. "Sure," Shepard said with a shrug, shuffling slightly in her chair. Sam looked on, expectantly. "The gist of it is, we need more people who know both how to fight a battle and how to win the peace." The sentence sounded awkward on Shepard's tongue, leaving Sam to believe that she was quoting something. "You've seen how crazy the world is getting. That's..." Shepard made a small motion with her hands, letting them rest on her knees "...what they need. Warrior-diplomats."

"And they sent you to UVan to become that woman?" Sam asked, cautiously.

Shepard nodded. "Pretty much. Some of it's interesting; I apparently have a knack for ' _cross-cultural communication_ '," a mischievous smile came to Shepard's face at that. "Some good language training."

"... _But?_ " Traynor could practically hear the end of Shepard's sentence, even if the woman hadn't said it herself.

Shepard sighed. " _But_ , yeah, a lot of it's pretty boring. Spent four hours today talking about Metternich and Vienna and the ' _balance of power_ '. Then lunch. Then another three hours on Bismarck and German unification and the balance of power again." Shepard groaned a little simply reciting it all. "I'm not a history geek, Traynor. Let's leave it at that."

"I never would have guessed," Samantha lied with a smile. "And here I thought you were just a Germanophobe."

"I don't... mind germs?" Shepard replied, a little uncertainly. "No more than anyone else?"

"Ger _man_ ophobe," Sam corrected, with added emphasis. "As in, ' _fear of things Teutonic_ '."

Shepard snorted. " _Hey_ , I spent six months at Landstuhl. Love _Deutschland_. Only reason I was at the Fishbone is because it carries Distelhäuser."

"Oh? It wasn't to flirt with the _beautiful_ and _intelligent_ waitresses who work there?" Sam said, with a teasing smile.

_Remember, Sam, you actually_ don't _have a concussion. So you can't use the 'traumatic head injury' excuse to get out of something incredibly awkward._

"Nice try," answered Shepard, ignorant to Sam's inner monologue. "I like my dates able to keep their balance."

Shepard's smile slipped away as she caught Sam's expression, a misstep in a _not-officially-flirty_ dance.

They settled into silence.

"My apologies for that," declared Doctor Chakwas, jolting the two women with her words. "These new computers. Every time I think I understand them, they have to change them."

Sam smiled. "If it means my medical records get filed correctly, I'll be happy to volunteer all the time in the world to smooth things out."

Chakwas chuckled. "I may have to take you up on that, dear. But in the meantime," she reached for her clipboard, "you've got as clean a bill of health as can be asked for. I'd suggest you take a day or two off, and keep your weight off that foot for bit, but you children never do."

Sam frowned. "I'm _twenty-seven_ next month, I'll have you know."

"She _will_ , doc, I promise," Shepard interrupted, ignoring Traynor's righteous indignation. "Even if I have to sit on her myself."

"Well I wouldn't recommend going _quite_ so far," Chakwas mused, a little twinkle in her eyes. She turned to face Sam. "You have that follow-up appointment written down somewhere, young lady?"

"I can keep some numbers in my head, ma'am,' Sam answered. Normally such data would've gone straight to both of her calendar apps, though her phone - like the rest of her possessions - was back in the locker at the Fishbone.

" _Hmpf_. See that you do." She scribbled a few notes in the no-doubt illegible handwriting of doctors worldwide. "I've phoned campus security, they'll be giving you a ride back to wherever it is you live."

"Just on-campus. But that's really not necessary, ma'am-"

-"Thank you."

_How does Shepard have a way of_ always _making her decisions sound so damn final?_

There really wasn't any doubt that Shepard was going to escort Sam back to her dormitory, the sprawling Arcutus Residences reserved for grad students and up. They waited outside the hospital a few minutes for a Campus Security (C-SEC) van to make its way to their spot, the night-shift officers making a show of assisting the nominally-invalid Sam into her seat.

They drove in silence, the car cruising down nearly-empty streets, passing the occasional gaggle of freshmen or the lonely prof with an evening class. The events of the night continued to replay themselves in Sam's head, again and again, so many emotions only now finding the time to be parsed and processed.

The absolute cock-up that was her shift at the Fishbone. The harassment. The fights. _Falling_. Shepard standing above her like a guardian angel. Being carried to a hospital. Her injuries being tended to. The not-quite flirting with a woman Sam had run into twice in one day.

" _Well_ ," said Shepard, unbuckling her seatbelt. "Here we are."

Sam made her way out of the van, wincing slightly as she awkwardly hopped onto her bad foot. Shepard, thankfully, didn't see her pained expression.

"You going to be okay for the night?" Shepard asked, completely seriously, staring into Sam with those emerald-green eyes of her.

"Sure enough," Sam confirmed. "Left my keys at the pub but my flatmate has a spare."

Shepard nodded. "C-SEC is probably going to want to have a few words with you tomorrow morning."

"I suspected as much," Sam said with a sigh. "My boss at the Fishbone, too." She rubbed her face. She had half a mind to just quit the job and never return, were it not for (a) the fact that she damn-well needed the money and (b) all her stuff was still in the locker.

"If you need help with either of those," Shepard said, softly, "you have my number, right?"

"Right." Sam's chest suddenly felt unbearably heavy, a coil of iron curled around her stomach. "Look, I just want to say..."

_that you're a wonderful human being and I would love to get to know you better_

_that I have a_ massive _crush on you and really think we should skip straight to the lovemaking_

_that in the seven or so hours since I've known you I've already imagined a series of increasingly-inappropriate fantasies about you and let's just say that if you wanted to spank me I probably wouldn't say no_

"...thank you. That was... that was _much_ more than you needed to do for me. For a stranger. If there's anything I can help you with, any favor you need..."

Sam felt moisture welling up in her eyes, despite herself. She suppressed a shudder, rubbing the bridge of her nose to conceal the small tears.

_What an absolute mess you are, Samantha Traynor. Standing here, outside your flat, crying in the night for no reason at all. Do you think_ Shepard _stands around in her down-time, just having a good cry because-_

Shepard's hand landed on her shoulder, patting it firmly. When Sam finally looked up, she saw the easy smile in Jane's eyes, a strength that was more than muscle-deep.

_"..._ Try to fix my laptop, Samantha," Jane said, squeezing her shoulder as she did.

" _Sam_."

"I'm sorry?"

" _Sam_ ," Traynor repeated. "Most people... call me Sam. Or just Traynor. Samantha's a name..."

Shepard's hand fell from her shoulder. "Fix my laptop, Sam, and I'll call you anything you want."

And with that Shepard was off, slinking down the street without so much as a glance over shoulder.

_Of course she doesn't look back. She's practically the epitome of badassery. Though staring at her for the two and a half minutes it takes to round a corner is_ just _as suave a move, Sam._

"Oh, shut up," Sam muttered, indulging in a rare vocalization of her subconscious arguments.

She made her way to the building's elevator, Shepard's words ringing in her ears all the way back to her bed. There were a _lot_ of possibilities in those statements, and there was nothing Sam loved _quite_ like calculating the odds of each.

She fell asleep, still in Shepard's sweater, just wondering what she'd ask Shepard to call her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual, I love your comments, your feedback, your thoughts and your theories. If you think there's something I could be doing better, please just yell it at me, because that's the only way I improve.
> 
> Hope the AU building in this chapter was enjoyable!

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are greatly appreciated. I really wish there were more Modern AU settings for Mass Effect, but the aliens definitely make it (understandably) hard to do. But I've got some ideas for this setting, and if you enjoyed how this played out, I might just be able to write them.
> 
> Please feel free to leave me feedback & suggestions in the comments, or hit me up on [Tumblr](http://pvoberstein.tumblr.com/), [Twitter](https://twitter.com/pvoberstein), [reddit](https://www.reddit.com/user/pvoberstein/), or some other site.


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